


Forever

by tianaluthien



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tianaluthien/pseuds/tianaluthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn and Faramir have been married only two or three years, but once again their peace is threatened by war. A 4th Age AU tale. Formerly posted on henneth-annun.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Southern Wind

_With a sigh_

_You turn away_

_With a deepening heart_

_No more words to say_

_You will find_

_That the world has changed_

_Forever_

_And the trees are now_

_Turning from green to gold_

_And the sun is now fading_

_I wish I could hold you_

_Closer_

~*~

A stone manor had been built on a hill overlooking the land. The courtyard offered a view of rolling hills and plains, thick woods, and sparkling streams. In the golden light of the autumn evening leaves and grass glowed russet and emerald, and tiny rainbows danced around the fountain in the court, the sun reflected through the water that burbled merrily down into the basin.

 The courtyard was open to the sky and surrounded on three sides by the walls of the manor; the wall of the fourth side, the one that opened onto the land, was punctured by crenels. The fountain sat at the heart of the yard, soft green moss clinging to the basin and the stones on the ground. Potted flowers and bushes were scattered about, splashes of colour against the smooth grey stone.

Seated on a low flight of steps that led inside was a man. His eyes were half-closed, his raven hair falling across his forehead, his mouth moving as he sang quietly one of the songs of old. At his side, dressed in a mantle of deep blue edged in stars, was a woman, her head resting on his shoulder as he stroked her hair.

They had retreated to the courtyard after the evening meal, seeking peace and solitude after what had been a very busy day. Here amidst the music of the fountain, the scent of flowers, and the quiet wind, all the troubles of the world seemed to evaporate.

The man continued his song, his voice low and rich, and a soft smile touched the woman's lips. When at last he fell silent, she stirred in protest. 'Don't stop,' she murmured.

He grinned and tipped up her chin. 'Would you have me sing myself hoarse?'

Her smile turned mischievous. 'I would.'

He laughed, then – something he had done with greater frequency since marrying her – and hugged her to his side. After a moment, he began again; with a smile of contentment, his wife nestled herself comfortably beneath his arm and closed her eyes.

Suddenly there came the sound of running footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. An instant later one of the servants appeared, looking out of breath. 'My Lord Faramir,' he gasped, sketching a bow as they turned to look at him. 'A messenger from the King has arrived – he says he has urgent news.'

Frowning worriedly, Faramir rose from his place on the step. 'Tell him I am coming.'

With another hasty bow the servant scurried away, leaving them alone once more.

Bending over, Faramir kissed the top of her head. 'I will return,' he promised. Then he, too, was gone.

Éowyn watched him leave, a feeling of unease settling on her shoulders; given the current state of affairs with the Haradrim, an urgent message from Aragorn could mean only one thing: war.

Aragorn and Faramir – and anyone else remotely familiar with the political situation in Harad – had seen it brewing. They had hoped to avoid it, but now it seemed that war had come again, in spite of their best efforts.

War.

Éowyn glanced down at her hands lying quietly in her lap, white against the deep blue of the mantle; suddenly restless, she jumped to her feet and began walking about the courtyard, absently fingering a leaf or petal, trailing her fingers in the ice cold water of the fountain, moving at last to stand in one of the crenels looking out over the land. A chill breeze whispered and she sighed, pulling the mantle closer.

Minutes slid by and then quiet footsteps sounded on the stones behind her, crossing the court, drawing closer until their maker stood at her side.

'War,' she said tonelessly, the wind teasing strands of pale hair across her face.

Faramir nodded, a frown creasing his forehead. 'What troubles you?' he asked, tucking the errant locks behind her ear.

She shrugged and their hands met and clasped. 'I do not know,' she said at last, her voice betraying her impatience with herself. Slowly she shook her head and turned to face him. 'When do you ride?'

'At dawn,' he replied, tracing the contours of her face with his eyes. 'Your brother is also to ride with us.'

The corner of her mouth twitched. 'Make certain he does nothing rash – Éomer has been known to do so.' Faramir laughed. 'I shall – but I'll not tell him what you said.'

'You  _may_  tell him I said it – and if he has aught to say, then you may tell him that I will meet him on the training field,' Éowyn answered, mouth curving in a grin.

Faramir chuckled again and kissed her nose. 'If such is my lady's wish,' he murmured, inclining his head, 'then I will deliver this message, and gladly.'

A quiet laugh escaped her lips and she buried her face in his shoulder, while Faramir closed his eyes and rest his head on hers.

Gradually the golden glow faded and night descended, filling the sky with shining silver stars. A pale sliver of light hovered across the horizon for a moment, then disappeared. With the loss of the sun the chill in the air deepened, but neither Éowyn nor Faramir stirred; night birds called softly to one another and the water in the fountain continued tumbling into basin after basin, splashing quietly.

Faramir reached up to stroke her hair. 'I love you, Éowyn of Rohan,' he whispered.

Her fingers tightened around his own. 'Dawn,' she muttered, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

He sighed. 'Dawn.'

~

Months ago word had reached Gondor that one of the more powerful Haradrim chieftains, one with little love for the Northerners, had united the other chieftains under his banner – whether willingly or not, it was hard to say. Subsequent diplomatic overtures had been met with coldness and the messengers had returned home filled with unease and fearing for their lives until they passed safely into the realm of Gondor once more.

As a precaution Aragorn had begun to quietly gather Gondor's army together, in the event that they might be needed; Éomer had also begun to bring together the men of Rohan and journeyed to Minas Tirith with them. When scouts reported that Harad's army was being massed, they knew it was only a matter of time.

Now that hour had come.

King Elessar, now rode out to face the enemy with Éomer, son of Éomund, and as the Lord Faramir's knowledge of Haradrim warfare was required, the Prince Imrahil was left in charge of the realm.

So many had already died, the people mourned. How many more lives would be claimed this time?


	2. The Circles of the World

Morning is early yet - pale blue and grey - and the chill of night still clings to the air; the dew lies sparkling on the grass.

She stirs and slowly her eyelids flutter open; she feels strangely rested, despite the earliness of the hour. Perhaps it is because she did not dream.

A cool wind touches her face and she raises herself up on her elbow to see from whence it comes: one of the windows is open, allowing wind and silver light to flow into the room; she must not have latched the shutters properly the night before.

She looks down at the floor for a moment, not seeing the braided rug at the bedside, then slowly pushes away the heavy blankets and goes to stand at the window. She runs her hand along the smooth stone of the sill, the wind ruffling her hair and nightgown, then gazes out at the courtyard.

He is outside, his profile to the window, gazing at the crystal waters of the fountain. He is in his nightshirt, his midnight blue robe hanging open, soft leather slippers on his feet; his raven hair is tousled and falling across his forehead.

As if sensing her presence at the window, he turns his head and smiles sleepily, warmly.

For a moment she only stares. She starts to speak his name but he is gone, suddenly.

'Faramir…' The name falls from her lips and is snatched away by the wind. Closing her eyes, she slams the palm of her hand against the windowsill. When she opens her eyes again, she sees the teardrops staining the stone.

~*~

It had been perhaps a month since Faramir had departed with the King, leaving the realms of Gondor in Imrahil's hands. The fighting remained distant from the borders of Ithilien and life continued with as great a semblance of normalcy as possible. Little word was heard from the front but every day that passed was a day nearer to their return.

A week after the army's departure, Arwen had invited Éowyn to stay at the Citadel for a time; the two had become friends over time, much to the delight of their husbands.

Three weeks had passed since Éowyn's arrival and she felt impatient to be home once more. She missed the wide-open space and freedom of Emyn Arnen, where life was not weighed down with the ancient sobriety and tradition that formed the very stones of the city. When alone, she often found herself atop the walls with the wind on her face, or in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, walking barefoot through the grass.

Now she stood on the wall, hands resting on the parapet, shivering a little in the wind; she had forgotten the mantle in her room, but felt no desire to re-enter the stone passageways in order to retrieve it. For now she was content to be where she could see rolling plains and hills, and the sun sparkling off the waters of the Anduin.

One had trailing along on the stone wall, she started to walk slowly, savouring the feel of the wind whistling around her. She had gone but a few steps when a dark shape on the horizon caught her attention. Shading her eyes, she stopped and stared at it: the shape was growing steadily nearer and soon she was able to see that it was a band of men - soldiers - on horseback, the flags of Gondor and Rohan flying in their midst. A moment later the city guard took up the cry.

As Éowyn continued watching from her place on the wall a curious frown creased her forehead; that they were not being pursued was obvious, and perhaps their tidings were not urgent, for she could see that they were not riding as swiftly as they might.

The riders were becoming distinct, taking shape.  _Faramir, are you with them?_  Rousing herself she turned and ran back the way she had come, seeking the stairs. She descended rapidly, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the stone, and was soon running through the streets, spiralling down through every level of the city. She reached the bottom just as the riders spilled in through the main gates.

Aragorn and Éomer were among the first to appear, and she craned her neck, scanning the faces of the men - all were tired, dirty, and shadowed - but none of them was Faramir. Her fists clenched, nails digging into the palms of her hands.  _Where are you?_

Someone placed a hand on her shoulder and she turned to see Éomer, his face grim and sorrowful; Aragorn stood a little behind him, his face inscrutable.

She waited, but her brother remained silent - and that frightened her more than anything he could have said. 'Éomer,' she said, her voice strangely unsteady, 'where is Faramir?'

Éomer flinched and the hand on her shoulder tightened. 'Éowyn…he fell.'

For a moment she thought she had not heard him properly - he could not have said what she thought he had. She  _must_  have been dreaming. 'No,' she said, the colour draining from her face. 'No.'

Éomer muttered a curse. 'A stray arrow found his neck - Éowyn -'

Éowyn did not hear.  _He fell… A stray arrow… He fell…_

_He fell…_

She stepped away from him, her hands going to limp at her sides. Slowly she turned and looked at the soldiers, some in the arms of loved ones; some talking wearily amongst themselves; she scanned their faces, certain that Faramir was among them. He  _must_  be there, somewhere. He  _must_.

'Éowyn.' The voice came from somewhere distant, familiar and caring, but she barely heard. Faramir was here. She knew it.

'Éowyn.' Another voice, no less distant but far more powerful, and against her will she found herself being drawn back. Reluctantly she turned and found the solemn grey eyes of Gondor's king fastened on her face.

He said nothing, but she understood. Without a word she walked past him, past her brother, away from the teeming mass of soldiers and civilians she neither saw nor heard, and into the now-quiet streets of Minas Tirith. Éomer started after her but Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder. 'Not yet,' he said quietly. 'Give her some time.'

Éomer chewed on his lip, frowning worriedly, as he gazed after his sister's retreating figure; when she disappeared from view he looked back at Aragorn and they rejoined the soldiers.

Hours later, when everything had been dealt with, Éomer began searching for his sister. As the sun was waning, he finally found her in the gardens of the Houses of Healing: she was sitting beneath a tree, face pale and haunted, huddled in the folds of a deep blue mantle edged in stars.


	3. The Silent Street

She remains at the window, gazing out at the empty courtyard and the cold dawn; it all seems so far away…was it only yesterday that the - news - had come? Today, with all due ceremony, they will carry his body down the Silent Street and place it in the House of Stewards.

Abruptly she turns her back on the window and the rising sun; the day has begun and it will be a long one, for she will have much to do.

Stepping into the shadows she shivers. What joy is there in dawn without him?

~

She stands silent and tall, her hair braided and woven tightly around her head. She is dressed in the dark, heavy mourning dress that she has worn so many times before; she feels stifled by its weight.

The hall is long and high, and the scattered whispering of the mourners echoes strangely. Torches hanging from chains on the wall are the only source of light. She longs for the sun and the open sky; she feels the hall closing in around her, and she cannot stop it.

As she watches, the bearers lay the litter on the stone bier and step away, heads bowed in sorrow and reverence. Now the King, Aragorn, steps forward. He speaks, but she does not hear, for her eyes are fixed on the lifeless body of the man who had been her husband.

He lies quietly, robed in the raiment of Steward, his face relaxed and free of pain and sorrow, his raven hair falling around his shoulders. Seeing him thus she would think him merely asleep…but for the fact that he does not breathe.

_How can this be?_  she wonders.  _You laughed with me, the night before you left._

There is a pressure inside her chest, as though something is trying to smother her.

_You have gone and now I remain behind…alone._

The pressure is rising, moving up her throat, and her eyes are burning painfully. Still, she stands erect, hands clasped tightly over the folds of the dark veil that covers her golden head.

The King finishes speaking, though she does not know what he has said, and steps back, taking the Queen's hand in his own. The silence is final.

Éowyn stares at their entwined fingers, her own hands suddenly aching.  _How can this be?_  A quiet shuffling begins to fill the chamber as the mourners prepare to leave.

_No_ , she thinks, almost choking now.  _This is not the end…it cannot be…_  She wants to stop them, but she does not know how or why. Her fingers grip the veil so tightly that her knuckles burn white. Almost involuntarily she begins to sing.

The sound of her voice - clear, cold, despairing - halts the people in their tracks. It is a song in the tongue of her people, and speaks of death and sorrow; it is the song she sang at her cousin's funeral, and her uncle's.

Her voice echoes loudly throughout the hall, reverberating off the stone walls, and her vision blurs as scalding tears slip from her eyes. At last she finishes, and her voice cracks though it does not break. She stands as tall as ever, her face wet, eyes hollow, her breathing ragged.

The spell is broken and the people find that they are able to move once more. Many are the furtive glances cast her way, and many are the whispers about the strange grief of the Lady Éowyn, the wild Shieldmaiden of the North. No one stops to condole for now they are all even more eager to leave this place - but her song will haunt their dreams, though they do not understand the words.

Éomer waits until the crowd thins, then approaches her, a frown creasing his forehead. He puts a hand on her shoulder but she does not react. 'Éowyn,' he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Acknowledgment: she turns to look at him and his sense of unease grows at the distance he sees in her eyes. 'Éowyn -'

'Leave me alone,' she says. 'Please, Éomer.'

His frown deepens and he opens his mouth to speak again but she has turned away, shut him out.

His frown turns to a scowl; he wants to stay but the Queen calls him softly, beckoning. Reluctantly he turns and follows Aragorn and Arwen from the hall. At the door he pauses to glance over his shoulder: his sister has not moved. She stands alone at the side of the bier, her head bowed, unmoving. Slowly he leaves the burial hall, his heart heavy.

He remembers how changed she was when he saw her after the Battle of the Black Gate; she was still a shieldmaiden, but he had seen joy and peace in her eyes. He had seen love.

He cannot see it now.

~

The doors close softly and she knows she is alone. For a long time she remains still, her mind strangely blank. At length she stirs and takes a step closer to the bier, then another and another, until she stands right up against it. Reaching out, she runs her fingers softly through his hair, just as she has done many times in his life. She remembers…

~*~

It was a warm summer evening and the breeze came not off the River Anduin, but from the South and as such was warm and faintly sultry, laced with the scent of spices. Night birds were calling softly, and the clouds drifted lazily across the sky, glowing pink in the light of the low-hanging sun.

They sat in the meadow, in the shade of a grove of trees, facing the sunset. Faramir lay with his eyes closed, his hands folded over his chest, his head in Éowyn's lap. She stroked his hair gently, watching the tired lines fade gradually from his face; it had been a long and trying day, full of tedious meeting and stubborn ambassadors who refused to be agreeable to either King or Steward. Though Gondor's king had returned nearly two years previously, there was much still to be done - and however busy Faramir became, it must be many times worse for Aragorn.

With a wry smile, Éowyn shook her head and leaned forward to brush her lips across Faramir's forehead.

He opened his eyes and smiled up at her. 'Good evening,' he said sleepily.

She grinned. 'Good evening.'

His grey eyes studied her face for a moment. Then, quietly: 'I am glad I am not a king.'

Her grin widened. 'That is well - for I am not a queen!'

Faramir's only response was to laugh and pull her down into his arms.

~*~

The memory fades and she shudders, clutching tightly at the veil. The moment passes and she raises a hand. Gently, she smoothes the hair from his brow and bends down to brush her lips across his own. Then she steps back, turns, and walks away, never glancing behind.


	4. Rain

Days have passed since the funeral and Éowyn has not stirred from Emyn Arnen, so Éomer now comes to her. Since the day he thought her dead on the Pelennor fields, he has come to realize how much he truly loves her - and seeing her now, silent, pale, and grave as in the dark times, his heart is sore within him.

For Éowyn's part, she hears his voice as he speaks though she does not hear the words; his was the voice that called to her and helped draw her from the Shadow. There is warmth in his voice when he speaks to her, and she knows she can trust him.

'What of the war?' she asks, cutting him off in mid-sentence though she does not realize it.

He scowls, as though unhappy with her question. She persists and this time he answers. 'It is not finished - their retreat is only temporary. They are well within their own borders and they are regrouping, Aragorn knows, but we will be ready for them when they come.'

'I see,' she answers, her voice strangely toneless.

Éomer glances at her sharply, worry in his eyes.

'Do you stay with us much longer?'

He shrugs. 'While life is peaceful in Rohan and I am able to aid my friend, I will stay.'

She looks at him; subtlety is not his strong suit. 'You stay for more than this,' she says, abrupt. 'You stay for me.'

He grimaces. 'Yes,' he replies bluntly.

'Éomer.' His grimace changes to a frown. He stops walking and places a hand on his shoulder, his clear bright eyes seeking her own. 'Always I have tried to look out for you and that will never change, say what you will.'

'Lothíriel will be wishing you home.'

'Lothíriel will understand - she knew it might be some time before I returned.'

She recognizes the tone of his voice, his stance; he is a stubborn man and he will not let it lie. She knows not whether to be angry or grateful - she knows only that she wishes to be alone. Shaking off his hand and gaze she begins to walk again, her bare feet making no sound as she treads over grass and earth.

'There is something else,' Éomer calls to her, sounding frustrated.

She keeps walking; part of her acknowledges that she being difficult, while the other half simply does not care and does not wish to hear.

There are hurried steps behind her and in a moment her brother stands before her once more. This time he puts both hands on her shoulders. 'Éowyn,  _listen_  to me!' he growls.

She stares into his eyes - eyes so like her own - and remembers a time not long ago when a pair of grey eyes were turned on her in much the same manner. She shudders slightly and feels Éomer's hands tighten.

'Éowyn?' His voice is gentle.

She shakes her head. 'What is it you have to say?'

He studies her only a moment before plunging ahead. 'What will you do now?'

Éowyn glances at him sharply but he continues without waiting for an answer. 'You could return to Edoras -'

Startled, she stiffens and does not hear the words that follow.  _'You could return to Edoras…' Return to Rohan?_  She folds her arms and rubs her cold hands over them.  _Leave - this place?_  she thinks, gazing around the manor garden.  _Leave?_  Something in her chest constricts at the very idea. Suddenly she realizes that Éomer is waiting expectantly, wanting an answer now; he was never very patient. Her arms tighten around herself.  _No._  'Let me think on it,' she says.

~

She knows that Éomer will not wait long before he asks again - and he will not be pleased with her answer. He will not let the matter lie - he is stubborn, that way - but she cannot answer what he wishes. She cannot say what he wants to hear.

She stops her weeding and sits back on her heels, gazing about her at the autumnal flowers and shrubs, and the small apple tree she and Faramir had planted when they first came to Emyn Arnen.  _Leave this place?_  Slowly she shakes her head, breath catching in her throat.  _No Éomer, you do not understand._  How can she leave a place where his memory is tied to everything?

Abruptly she bites down on her lip, hands clenching tightly in her lap.

_…a place where his memory is tied to everything…_

Shuddering, she covers her face with her earth-stained hands, trying to breathe, only breathe - it is the only way she can go on.

Overhead the clouds part and it begins to rain.

~*~

Éowyn stopped in her tracks and tilted her head, listening as he rain began to fall; softly at first, then with greater force, drumming on the manor roof and the stone floor of the courtyard.

Moving to stand at a window, she thrust her hand outside to feel the water on her skin. This rain was unlike any in Rohan: it felt  _warm_  and the summer air clung to her gently, like a second skin.

Withdrawing her hand, she wiped it dry on her skirt and continued on her way. Down the stairs, through the hall, past an open doorway -

She came to an abrupt stop, glanced over her shoulder, then retraced her steps and went to stand in the doorframe, looking out into the garden. 'Faramir?'

Her husband stood out in the garden, in the rain, his face turned to the sky. His raven hair was plastered to his head and water ran in rivulets down his face; his clothing was soaked through. At the sound of his name being called he looked in her direction, shaking the water from his face. 'Éowyn,' he said, smiling.

Éowyn crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow curiously. 'What  _are_  you doing?' she asked.

The smile changed to a grin as he blinked the rain from his grey eyes. 'I should think it was perfectly obvious - I am getting wet.'

Her lips twitched and she chuckled softly. 'So I see.' She said nothing else, only waited, knowing there was more.

Faramir remained silent for a moment and he began to walk towards her, face suddenly thoughtful. 'Boromir and I,' he said at last, 'would often go out when it rained, especially in the summer. It was a way to cool off - and time to be together without - without father always looking over our shoulders.' His voice trailed off and his expression turned wistful.

Éowyn bit her lip. There was nothing she could say, she knew, that would ease his pain…and she felt slightly awkward, having intruded on his memory.

As if sensing her thoughts Faramir smiled at her, full of warmth. Then he held out his hand and nodded his head at the garden. 'Come with me,' he said.

She stared out at the pouring rain, then at the drenched figure of her husband standing in the doorway. Her lips twitched again and she burst into merry laughter. Still laughing, she took his hand and followed him out into the rain.

~*~

The rain falls - cold, for it is autumn - running down her face, soaking her dress and hair. Her shuddering begins to subside and she rises slowly from her place by the flowerbed. She turns and starts to walk back to the manor, blinking the rainwater from her eyes. At the door, she hesitates and looks over her shoulder at the garden, seeing the apple tree, water trickling from the tip of each golden-red leaf; she and Faramir had planted it that day, in the rain.

Her eyes close and her fingers grip the cool brass doorhandle. She opens the door and steps inside, leaving the garden behind.


	5. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Éomer visits her every day, bringing news of the city and the ever-growing tension in the South. From the reports of the scouts it appears that the Haradrim will be ready soon, very soon, though thus far they seem to be waiting, biding their time.

 _For what do they wait?_  she wonders distantly.

'In the city some wonder when Aragorn will choose a new Steward -'

Éowyn stiffens.  _Choose a new Steward?_

Éomer breaks off, swearing and looking chagrined. 'Éowyn -'

'Choose a new Steward?' She is shaking, furious.  _How dare they? How dare they forget so soon?_  Her hands clench at her sides. 'Have they no memory?' she demands, almost spitting. 'Do they so soon forget their dead?' Her voice cracks at the last word and she falls onto a stone bench, drawing the mantle close around her shoulders.

In a trice Éomer is at her side; she hates the worry she sees in his eyes. 'And what has Aragorn to say about this?' she asks, her voice rough.

'He has said nothing,' Éomer answers sharply. 'He will not appoint a new Steward so soon - Éowyn, you know this. He also loved Faramir - as did I, if for no other reason than that he made you smile.'

Éowyn says nothing, but her knuckles turn white as she grips the mantle.  _'…he made you smile…'_ She remembers standing atop the walls of Minas Tirith, remembers how he took her in his arms… She had smiled, then. As had he. The joy in his eyes…

'Have you considered my offer any further?' Éomer asks, breaking into her thoughts.

The walls of Minas Tirith, Faramir's smile, vanish and she is in the garden again with her brother. She lets out a breath and meets his eyes. 'I have considered,' she answers. 'And I…thank you, but I cannot leave this place.'

His eyes narrow. 'Cannot or will not?' he growls.

'Éowyn -'

'I will not change my mind,' she snaps, looking away.

'Why not?' Challenging.

Her hand twitches impatiently; he will not understand. She jumps to her feet and walks a few paces before whirling to face him; he, too, is on his feet. 'Because it is my decision to make. Leave it be, Éomer, for once in your life!'

'How can I leave it be when I see you suffering?' he demands. 'You - '

'Leaving this place will not help me,' she answers harshly. 'Whether you like or not, brother,  _this_  is my home.'  _At least, it was my home while you lived. What am I to do now, Faramir?_  When she speaks again, her voice is hollow, emotionless. 'Leave it be, Éomer.'

He starts visibly and the worry in his eyes intensifies. 'Éowyn - '

The love in his voice is too much. Afraid of what might happen if she remains, she turns on her heel and leaves him.

He starts to follow, but stops, his shoulders bowed; in his heart he knows she'll not be moved, but it unnerves him to see her like this. For a moment he stares at the door through which she passed, then without another word he too leaves the garden and heads for the stables.

~

_'He also loved Faramir - as did I, if for no other reason than that he made you smile.'_

She had once said that she would become a healer - this when Faramir had brought her to life, that day atop the walls - but now…  _Healer, heal thyself, she thinks bitterly. Faramir, did you ever fully know what you gave to me?_

Now she cannot even see the words on the page for night has fallen and light is gone. Looking up from the book, she stares out the window at the darkened land; she sees torches gleaming in the woods of Ithilien, but hears nothing. These past days and nights she has not heard the Elves singing. She knows they are also grieving, but she finds that she misses it - she and Faramir would fall asleep every night listening to the murmur of Elven voices raised in song. Without it, the night feels empty.

She leans back against the wall, suddenly tired. Gradually her eyes close against the night and soon she is asleep. The book falls from her limp hands and crashes to the floor, but she does not wake.

~*~

_Her arm felt numb and cold, as though pierced by a thousand shards of ice. There was darkness all around her; darkness filled with voices. No matter what she did, how she turned, where she stepped, she could not escape them._

_'Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey!'_

_'What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek?'_

_'No living man may hinder me!'_

_'Stay! For you have no errand to the South!'_

_'…thy flesh shall be devoured…'_

'Éowyn!'

The voice pierced the darkness, shattering it, and she awoke with a start, her cries still echoing throughout the room. There was a strange pressure on her chest and she felt she couldn't breathe.

Then the voice came again - 'Éowyn!' - and she felt a warm hand on her arm; the icy numbness began to subside. Gently the hand turned her over onto her back and she found herself staring up into a pair of worried grey eyes.

'The Witch King?' he asked quietly, stroking her hair.

She nodded once, mouth tight. 'It was two years ago today,' she whispered at last, voice hoarse.

'I know,' was all he said, still running his fingers through her hair.

'It is dark,' she went on, closing her eyes, 'and I can see nothing. My arm is cold, numb, and the voices…I cannot shut them out. His voice, the Worm's…' She stopped and opened her eyes. 'And I cannot shut them out.'

'They can hurt you no more.'

Éowyn scowled. 'I know - but it does not stop the dreams from coming. You of all people should know this.'

Faramir nodded, and when he spoke she could hear the gentle smile in his voice. 'I do - but then I remember that it has passed…and that I am alone no longer.'

 _…alone no longer…_  The scowl disappeared.  _Alone no longer._  'Thank you,' she murmured softly.  _How soon I forget!_

'You are most welcome,' he answered, leaning forward to kiss her forehead, his hair brushing against her face. 'Sleep well, my Lady Éowyn.' With the comforting warmth of her husband's arms around her, it was not long before she did.

~*~

She stirs and wakes, calling his name softly. 'Faramir…' Then she opens her eyes: she still sits at the window, and pale dawn is creeping over the horizon. The book lies at her feet, pages crushed against the stone floor.

Her mouth tightens and she bends down to retrieve the book. Carefully she tries to smooth the crumpled pages - Faramir had taught her to handle books with care - but they will not lie flat. Frowning, she presses more firmly, rubbing her thumb along the creases, but with no success. Angry tears spring to her eyes; she should have been more careful; she knows better. Faramir taught her to know better.

The pages remain bent and crooked, mocking her. Her hands tremble, now, as they hold the book, making the task difficult. She runs her thumb along one of the creases; the book slips; the pages rips: a loud, sharp noise.

She curses, and the book falls from her hands once more. Jumping up from the window seat she runs from the room. Behind her the book lies open on the floor, its mangled pages fluttering helplessly in the morning wind.


	6. The World Has Changed

It has been three days since the dream and she has not set foot in the chamber again, though as she passes the open doorway she sees that someone has closed the book and laid it on the window seat.

She does what she can to keep herself occupied, to keep her mind from straying down paths better left untrod, but with autumn ever deepening there is less and less work to be done in the garden. She takes long walks through the fields and forests both by day and by night. Wishing to be alone, she avoids the Elves; some of them have begun to sing again, and this angers her even though she once missed the sound of their voices in the night.

One evening, just as she is setting out, the starry mantle over her shoulders, she sees Éomer ride up to the gates. She tries to slip unnoticed around the corner, but he catches sight of her nonetheless. 'Éowyn!' he calls sharply, throwing the reins into the servant's waiting hands.

Resignedly she stops and faces him, beckoning him into the garden. She sees that his face is dark and grim, but she feels no curiosity; she desires only to be alone.

'We have received word that the Haradrim have begun their march again,' Éomer says, placing a hand on her arm. 'I ride with Aragorn at dawn.'

Éowyn says nothing. Éomer's frown deepens. 'I do not know how long I will be gone; they are not so numerous as they once were and Aragorn is hopeful that it shall not last long. Faramir -' He breaks off but when she does not react he continues, though his eyes are watching her warily. 'Faramir thought that if we were able to take to leader, the rest would scatter; he said they warred much amongst themselves.'

She nods slightly to show she has heard, but she is not looking at him; her eyes are on the fields, gazing unseeingly. Still, she says nothing.

His touch surprisingly gentle, he turns her face towards him so he can see her clearly. 'Take care of yourself while I am away,' he says quietly. 'I will return as soon as I am able.'

Again the silent nod.

Éomer simply stares at her, not knowing what to do. Then, with a sigh, he kisses her forehead and leaves the garden.

The moment he is out of sight, she turns and slips away, the blue of her mantle blending with the ever-deepening shadows.

~*~

The sun blazed down and the air was filled with the clash of steel, the cries of man and beast, and the stench of blood.

She stood alone before the Witch King, her bright hair shining pale gold, seeking death. The Nazgûl screamed, a sound high and terrible, and with his mace he struck her shield; it shattered and her arm was broken.

From behind the Black Rider a Halfling - one Meriadoc - stabbed his small sword into the wraith's knee. The Rider shrieked, and with a might effort Éowyn drove her sword through the empty space between the crown and mantle. Her sword splintered into many glittering pieces and there came a cry, thin and wailing, as the empty mantle fell to the ground.

A darkness came rushing for her and she sank to her knees, fighting it; there was something she must yet do. Slowly, she dragged her battered body across to the fallen horse and rider, easing around the animal's lifeless form. With difficulty she drew the helm from the man's head -

\- and suddenly found herself staring into Faramir's face: his eyes were open and blank, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

A scream of anguish and despair burst from her lips and this time she did not fight the darkness when it came for her.

~*~

She awakes, weeping, crying all the tears she has been holding back since he died; she cannot stop and for a long while she trembles uncontrollably.

At last she pushes herself up so she is sitting and presses her colds hands to her aching eyes. Moments pass and then she raises her head, gazing about the dark room; one of the windows is open but there is nothing to be seen, for the dawn has not yet come.

_There is still time._

Throwing aside the covers, she reaches for the robe draped over the chair and slips it over her shoulders. She then lights a candle and steals silently from the room, walking a little way down the hall until she passes through another door, closing it behind her.

She sets the candle on the floor and kneels before a wooden trunk. For a moment she only runs her hands lightly over the surface then, full of a cold and steady resolve, she grasps the handle and lifts the lid.

Inside, lying folded and untouched for a few years, is a small suit of Rohirric armour. This she sets beside her then reaches for the final item: a sword. It is not her own - hers shattered when she met the Witch King - but one that belonged to her grandmother, Steelsheen.

Rising, she slips it from the worn leather sheath and grasps the hilt firmly in her hands. Experimentally she swings, cutting the air, and nods grimly; the feel and movement are familiar. She has not forgotten.

She slides the blade back into its sheath and leans it against the trunk. Straightening, she slips the robe from her shoulders and draws the nightgown up over her head; time is pressing.

~

It is not yet dawn, though a thin silver line has appeared on the horizon, when a figure on horseback leaves the manor stables and begins to ride towards Minas Tirith. By the time the soldier arrives at the Rohirric encampment outside the walls, dawn is just breaking and the men are up and preparing to march. No one notices the new arrival, and when Aragorn leads his own men out of the city gates, the Rohirrim fall in behind Éomer.

High up on the city walls the people see them off, watching the two kings lead their men on a southward march.


	7. No More Words

Though it was true that the Haradrim army was not as large as it had once been, they still fought as ferociously as ever, doing their utmost to beat back and destroy the Northerners - a task made easier due to the loss of Faramir's military knowledge.

Battle raged unceasing for three days and many fell on both sides. Bodies littered the ground, their blood soaking into the earth, the sun glinting off the grim-dulled armour. Carrion birds circled overhead, cackling and cawing to one another as they searched for an opening in the melee.

As the fourth day dawned with neither side having gained a significant advantage over the other, Northerners and Southerners picked up their swords again and prepared to defend and attack. This time, however, there was a tension in the air, a sense of expectation that had not previously been felt.

Warily, the Northerners gazed upon their enemy and in the light of morning saw that on a mound in the midst of the Haradrim was a man on a great black horse, with a ring of guards was around him. Tall he was, and robed in scarlet, black, and gold; he wore no armour that they could see. His swarthy face was scarred and cruel, and he held his head high. The guards around him seemed to hold him in fear and awe, so stiffly they stood at attention, not daring to look upon his face.

This, then, the Northerners whispered, is he who is the cause of our troubles.

The presence of their leader seemed to fuel the Haradrim with new ferocity, and the Northerners strove hard to meet them. About midday, the man in scarlet gave a cry and drove his horse into the battle, laughing wildly. A vivid figure, he was never out of sight. Then, as twilight was beginning to fall, a great wailing cry full of rage filled the air.

The Haradrim faltered, looking about in confusion; nowhere could they see the man in scarlet. Another voice rose, screaming words in the Southern tongue, and the battle suddenly became a rout. No longer united under their leader, their sense of purpose vanished and with it the driving bloodlust. Leaderless they became rival tribes once more.

Sensing that victory was near at hand, the soldiers of Rohan and Gondor renewed their efforts and soon the Haradrim were fleeing back to their lands, trampling the bodies of the fallen.

Wearily, Aragorn surveyed the carnage, watching his men as they picked their way through the body-strewn field, searching for those who still lived. The soft shades of early evening now filled the sky, hiding the worst of it - but he knew what they would see when morning came again. In the interim, it was imperative to find the survivors before night fell and hid them.

Wiping a hand across his forehead, he knelt to clean his sword on the grass -

A scream of anguish cut through the air and he stopped in mid-motion, his head snapping up in time to see Éomer tearing across the field.

Éomer screamed again and fell to his knees, lifting up a body and cradling it close to his chest. Bright hair spilled over his arm and even from this distance Aragorn could see the tears coursing down Éomer's face.

_No. It cannot be._

Sheathing his sword he leapt to his feet and began to run. Drawing close, he saw what he had feared: Éowyn, dead and covered in blood and grime, lying in her brother's arms.

Beside the place where she had fallen lay the bodies of the great black horse, neck broken from the fall, and his scarlet rider, Éowyn's sword thrust through his chest.


	8. Peace

She stands in a courtyard that overlooks the sea; the ebb and flow of the waters fills her ears and overhead she sees the gulls circling. The sun may be rising or setting - she is not certain which - for all about her is a soft golden light.

Slowly, she looks around. Behind her is a flight of steps leading inside - somewhere - and the other three sides are enclosed by a high stone wall which is punctured by crenels. In front of her, set in the heart of the yard, is a burbling fountain, its waters sparkling and clear. Soft green moss clings to the sides of the basin and the stones at her feet. Potted flowers and shrubs are scattered about, on the stairs, in the crenels, surrounding the fountain…

The wind touches her neck and she shivers, drawing the mantle higher; the stars about the edge shimmer softly in the golden light.

Suddenly, she sees him.

Standing at the end of the courtyard, framed in one of the crenels overlooking the sea, is a man. His back is to her and his raven hair flutters in the wind.

She begins to walk towards him, knowing, hoping, and though she makes no sound he turns around. A smile lights up his face and he holds out his hand. 'I have been waiting,' he says quietly.

She takes his hand, threading her fingers through his own. She is crying, silently. 'As have I,' she whispers.

His eyes trace over her face; she smiles through her tears and buries her face in his shoulder. He rests his head on hers and closes his eyes, stroking her hair.

And there they remain, untroubled, where the light does not fade and where the sea has no end, freed from the circles of the world.

_~*~finis~*~_

_'Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory.' ~The Return of the King, Appendix A 'The Tale of Aragorn & Arwen'_


	9. Author's Note

Firstly, this story is for cheesejoose, whose brilliant and heart-wrenching video “Memories” is what inspired this story. You may find the video here: <http://vimeo.com/9748743>  
  
Secondly, I said that story was somewhat AU. This is namely because I’m too much of a believer to think that Éowyn and Faramir had any less than fifty years together in Emyn Arnen. :D It’s also AU because their son Elboron has not yet been born; I tried to work it with him in it, but I could not see Éowyn abandoning her children whereas alone, she has only herself to worry about. I also tend to believe that Faramir and Éowyn were both buried in Ithilien, but for dramatic purposes I have him being buried in Rath Dinen. Furthermore, as Raksha pointed out to me, we have Faramir's dates - he lived to be about 120!  
  
Finally, many thanks to those on the Henneth Annûn Yahoo Group who answered my questions about the cultural/political system of the Haradrim and the burial place of the Stewards. Thanks to Erin for educating me on architectural terminology (i.e. “crenels”). Finally, many thanks to Ann for being my wonderful beta. Hennaid!!


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